Lament for the Fall of the One-Hundred Twenty-Third Block
The time had come for all things to change,
All your childhood memories erased,
Everything you thought you knew replaced
With things neighborly and all strange.
Whatever you love: the rock 'n' roll,
The silver screen magic, song and dance,
The puppet theater, has been choked,
As the voice of the frog had croaked.
The filtered air is no longer sweet.
The dead man's count is off the charts,
Of shattered dreams and broken hearts.
What is wholesome is merely deceit.
The end was brought by a small red imp,
Who tickled fancies and hypnotized
His charm was all but mirrors and smoke,
When the voice of the frog had croaked.
The cookie crumbs are nothing but lies!
Don't let children play on the junk heap;
Without self-esteem they'll be dirt cheap,
Like monsters damned to philosophize,
Ever changing "in" to "out" and back,
And justice is near, justice is far.
The monstrous moa flew unprovoked,
Since the voice of the frog had croaked.
This street died, succumbed to conversion;
Bears no more think their porridge just right,
Small sesame seed, vanished in night,
Brotherly love seen as perversion.
Swept up clouds block out the morning sun.
But no one can listen to the heart
Of a frog anymore, the imp joked,
For the voice of the frog had croaked.